Tuesday, June 1st. 08:55 AM. "Big Yellow Self Storage" Warehouse.
The fluorescent lights buzzed with their usual irritating hum. The air was thick with the smell of cardboard dust and packing tape.
Mason Turner entered, wearing a Crestwood hoodie and jeans. He walked with a slight limp, a reminder of 50 games and a bruised ankle from Wembley. He punched his card into the clocking-in machine. Clunk-whirrr.
"You're late," a voice called from the office.
Big Dave, the shift manager, stepped out, holding a clipboard and a copy of The Daily Mirror. On the back page, a photo showed Mason lifting the National League Playoff Trophy.
Mason paused. He scanned the rows of boxes he had spent the last two years stacking. He glanced at the forklift he was licensed to operate. He took a deep breath.
"Actually, Dave," Mason said, reaching into his pocket, "I'm not late."
He pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I'm resigning. Effective immediately."
Big Dave didn't take the letter. He simply grinned. "About time, skipper. I saw the game. That header in the 88th minute? Never a penalty."
"It was a clear penalty," Mason smiled, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.
"Get out of here," Dave said, shaking his hand. "Go play football. If you ever need to lift a box again, don't call me. You're too good for this place."
Mason stepped outside into the sunlight. He snapped a photo of the warehouse sign. He deleted the alarm clock setting on his phone labeled "WORK."
11:00 AM. The Odeon Cinema.
Callum Reid stood behind the popcorn counter. He wasn't wearing his uniform. He had sunglasses on indoors.
"Can I help you?" the manager, a stressed woman named Sarah, asked.
"I'm here to return the scoop," Callum said seriously, placing the metal popcorn scoop on the counter. "And the hat."
"You're quitting?" Sarah sighed. "Callum, you can't just quit. Who's going to cover the Friday rush?"
"I'm afraid my transfer fee has been met," Callum said, sliding a newspaper across the counter. It showed him celebrating his goal at Wembley.
Sarah looked at the paper, then at Callum. "Wait. That's you? The 'Chipped Wonder'?"
"That's me," Callum grinned. "I'm a professional athlete now, Sarah. I have to protect my hamstrings. No more standing for eight hours."
He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the display. "Keep the change."
He walked out the automatic doors, waving to the ticket tearer. "Later, Gary! Watch League Two highlights!"
Friday, June 4th. 2:00 PM. West Bromwich Albion Boardroom.
Ethan sat at a long mahogany table. His agent, a sharp man named Richards, sat next to him. Opposite them were the West Brom CEO and Julian Vance.
"The Premier League needs a Premier League contract," the CEO said, sliding a thick document across the table.
Ethan examined the numbers. It was not just a raise. It was life-changing. It was money to buy his parents a house. It was money for security for life.
"Five years," Vance said. "We build the team around you, along with Volkan and the new signings."
Ethan picked up the pen. He thought about the warehouse where Mason worked. He thought about the cinema. He thought about the loan to Riverton.
He signed. Ethan Matthews.
"Welcome to the big time, kid," the CEO smiled.
Wednesday, June 9th. 4:00 PM. Ibiza.
The villa was modern and white, perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. The pool had an infinity edge. The fridge was full.
Ethan, Mason, and Callum lay on sun loungers. They hadn't moved for four hours.
"I might never move again," Mason mumbled, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses. "My knees finally stopped clicking."
"I miss the mud," Callum lied, sipping his Fanta Limon. "I miss the smell of Deep Heat and desperation."
"Liar," Ethan laughed. "You love the heated pool."
Ethan sat up and looked at his friends. "So. We're all pros now. Officially."
"Full time," Mason nodded. "Training in the morning. Gym in the afternoon. No more shifts. No more sneaking out early for away games."
"It's weird," Callum said. "I feel like I'm skipping school."
Ethan reached into his bag. "I got you guys something. A signing bonus present."
He tossed two small velvet boxes to them.
Mason opened his. It was a watch. Not a Rolex, but a nice Tag Heuer. Engraved on the back: Wembley 2027. The Double.
Callum opened his. Same watch. "Eth..." Mason started. "This is too much."
"It's not," Ethan said firmly. "I signed the big deal. You guys got promoted. We did it together. The Pact."
Callum put the watch on right away. "Does this make me look like a Premier League footballer?"
"You're a League Two footballer," Mason corrected. "So it makes you look like a League Two footballer with a rich friend."
"I'll take it," Callum grinned.
Evening. The Sunset.
They went out for dinner in Old Town. They sat on a terrace, watching the sun sink below the ocean.
"Next season," Mason said, cutting into his steak, "it changes. The levels change."
"You've got Notts County, Wrexham, Chesterfield... League Two is tough," Ethan noted. "And the physical jump is significant."
"And you," Mason pointed his fork at Ethan, "you have City. Arsenal. Liverpool.
"I'll handle them," Ethan joked, though a small part of him felt butterflies.
"We need a new pact," Callum announced.
"Oh god," Mason groaned. "What now?"
"Survival," Callum said seriously. "Ethan keeps West Brom up. We keep Crestwood up. We establish ourselves. No relegation battles."
"Boring," Ethan said. "I want trophies."
"You just won a trophy," Mason laughed. "Greedy."
They raised their glasses. "To the off-season," Ethan toasted. "To no alarms. To no running. To healing."
"And to never working at the cinema again," Callum added eagerly.
They clinked glasses.
For the next two weeks, they didn't touch a football. They swam. They ate. They slept. They were just three teenagers on holiday. But every time they looked at their wrists, the watches glinted in the sun. A reminder. They weren't just teenagers anymore. They were the Golden Generation of Eastfield.
And the Premier League was waiting.